Don't Break Character
by catie-withac
Summary: When Stiles is reaped into the Hunger Games he finds himself with a questionable mentor, a stylist with a mysterious background, and an ally who he may or may not want more with. He thinks if he can just get through the Games, everything will be alright, but part of his team has a different idea in mind which might just destroy all that he had managed to accomplish.
1. Below My Feet

Stiles Stilinski wasn't planning on having a good day. From the moment he woke up, he knew nothing even bordering on happy would occur until the following morning. So he made his father and himself a meager breakfast without talking much and his father didn't comment like he normally would because he knew what the answer would be. It was Reaping Day in District 10. Everybody was in a bad mood.

"It's your last," his father reminded as he began eating.

Yes. And somehow that made it worse. He's gotten through six reapings so far, though, and hopefully his record would hold. He nodded, putting on a fake grin.

"Next year I get to just watch," he said.

"Stiles," John responded, that saddened look so very evident on his face.

"Sorry, it's just not much of a comfort, okay?" he replied.

His dad nodded, and their conversation ended there. This was basically the way their relationship went after Mrs. Stilinski passed away. John drifted within himself and Stiles kept things going. He learned how to cook and milk the cows, anything necessary. His father had gotten better over the years, but now he simply seemed obsessed with his job instead of his self-pity.

"I think my old suit should finally fit you this year," John said as Stiles started washing the dishes.

"Awesome," he let out, not even bothering to turn around.

John sighed and left the kitchen, a common occurrence. A few minutes later, Stiles entered his bedroom to find his dad's old suit lying on his bed. He was expecting it, but he didn't want to wear it. This was the suit he had married his mother in, and quite frankly, he didn't like the significance. But John would be disappointed if he didn't wear it, so wear it he did.

Stiles left the house with a quick goodbye to his dad. As he closed the door, he could hear his dad trying to initiate a proper farewell, but Stiles just wanted to pretend it was a normal day. It was a normal day. He had gotten up to help milk the cows in the morning and then sold it at the market, just like always. John would be leaving their house a bit closer to the Reaping, but Stiles had to get there early to sign in. As he neared the town square, he spotted his best friend coming down another side street and raised an arm to alert him.

Scott McCall rushed forward in that excited, nervous way that he did, and in fact he looked less put-together than normal. This was okay though, because only the people who might be reaped traditionally dressed up. After all, Scott was nineteen.

"This is worse than being in the Reaping," Scott said as a greeting.

"Now you know how I felt when you were twelve and I was eleven," Stiles replied nonchalantly, "And that was much worse because _I was eleven_. You know, you don't even have to be here."

"Yes, I do, it'd be worse watching it on TV," he said, "I have to be here for you and Allison."

Stiles smirked as they continued walking towards the square. Scott and Allison had started dating several months before, and they were about in love as you could be. The two were always hanging on each other, always touching in some way, and Stiles would find it revolting were it not for the fact that Scott had fawned over her since the moment he saw her. He couldn't bring himself to be anything but proud, to be honest, and happy for him. There was that too.

But right now, Scott was a nervous wreck. Much more anxious than Stiles was, at least on the outside. His buddy had a habit of displaying every emotion on his sleeve.

"How many times is your name in the bowl?" he asked.

"Just a couple," he replied casually.

That was an understatement.

"Stiles," Scott practically growled.

"It'll be fine," Stiles said with a wave of his hand, "It's always just fine."

"Yeah, I guess," Scott mumbled.

Soon after, he spotted Allison and left to talk to her while Stiles waited in line for his finger to be pricked. He drummed his fingers against his thighs absentmindedly, trying to think of anything but the moment. After that ordeal was over, he had to stand in a large group of all District 10 boys from twelve to eighteen. As a member of the oldest age group and having a last name near the end of the alphabet, he was positioned in the second to last row. Luck would have it that he had a clear view of his dad where he stood with Scott and Mrs. McCall. Melissa looked just as worried as the other two, and Stiles felt a pang from the reminder that she thought of him as a second son. The feeling was mutual.

Soon after that, their escort began the event. Marin Morell spoke evenly and elegantly in such a way that you felt as though every word was of utmost importance, which Stiles supposed was her job. For Capital people, she was fairly simple looking with dark straight hair and a pantsuit. Though her outfit was brightly colored red, she could almost pass for a District member if it wasn't for her accent. She told the same story that she did every year, the one that Stiles knew was worded to put the Districts in the wrong. Everybody knew who really was, but it didn't matter. After President Gerard's short remarks, the Reaping truly began. Morell picked a paper from the girls' glass bowl, as was tradition, and announced the female tribute.

"Erica Reyes,"

There was the sound of a gasp from the other side of the square before the blonde girl was pushed forward. She was holding her head high despite her audible reaction and the tears in her eyes. Stiles knew he should've felt sorry for her, but all he could feel was relief that it wasn't Allison. He locked gazes with his friend and smiled reassuringly to show this, and she nodded sadly in response. Obviously she felt what he could not. Guilt, he supposed.

Erica stood stiffly on the stage as Morell approached the other glass bowl. She fished around this time, perhaps trying to make it more dramatic, and a familiar buzzing began to fill his hearing. He picked a spot on a random building and stared at it, swallowing nervously as he tried to quell his anxiety. So caught up in his loud thoughts of "CALM DOWN, CALM DOWN," that he only caught the tail end of the announcement.

"- Stilinski,"

He snapped his head to look at the stage in disbelief. Only two people in District 10 had that last name, and one of them was his father. Before he could react, someone was pushing him towards the empty middle space. He was breathing erratically, still trying to process what was happening. Catching Allison's gaze again, he saw her horror as tears began trailing down her face.

"Stiles!" a scream came from the opposite direction.

He knew it was Scott without a doubt. Looking over, he saw his best friend throwing himself against the barrier of Peacekeepers as Melissa tried to pull him back. They were both full-out sobbing while his father stood shaking, just as much in shock as Stiles was. A second later, he was torn away from the sight as two Peacekeepers dragged him into the aisle. He pulled his arms roughly from their grasp and convinced his body to walk forward, still trying desperately to control his breathing. His movements were stiff and shaking, but they were movements nonetheless. The journey to the stage seemed long and agonizing, but in reality didn't last longer than a minute. Morell directed him to the microphone with an unemotional smile.

"So-,"

"It's Stiles," he interrupted without thinking, "Call me Stiles."

Somewhere in his subconscious, he was still worried about all of Panem hearing his horribly unpronounceable name for a second time.

"Okay, Stiles, how do you feel to be in the Hunger Games?" she asked as if it was the most exciting thing in existence.

He gritted his teeth.

"How do I feel about it," he repeated quietly, feeling a snarky retort coming on, "I-,"

He stopped abruptly as he spotted Allison shaking her head ever so slightly. _You'll make it worse_, her expression said, _Please don't_. He stared at her, knowing she was right, but he was still shaking.

"Yes?" Morell prompted.

Stiles tore his gaze away.

"I feel pretty numb about the whole thing," he answered, telling the truth while slipping a casual tone into it.

"Well, I'm sure the excitement will set in soon," she told him, corner of her mouth up a bit, "May I present, the District 10 tributes of the 63rd annual Hunger Games, Erica Reyes and Stiles Stilinski!"

The crowd clapped mutely for as short a time as possible, just like always, and before he knew it, he was being dragged into the large building behind them. The peacekeepers led him into a room and instructed him on what happened next. He'd receive some visitors and then Stiles would be off to the Capital. They locked him inside and almost instantly after the door clicked, he released a shuddering breath.

His eyes started watering for the first time as he paced back and forth, the knuckles of one hand pressed against his mouth anxiously. Minutes passed before the door opened and his father walked stiffly inside. Stiles rushed to embrace him and they stayed like that for a bit, John with his hand in his son's hair and Stiles with his face pressed to his shoulder.

"It's gonna be okay, Dad," he said, louder than he thought possible at the moment, "Don't go back to that place if this goes badly, okay?"

John held his son's face in his hands fondly, tears finally slipping onto his cheeks. He shook his head slowly.

"No, you can't fall to pieces again, Dad," Stiles told him sternly, "I want you to be happy, alright? No matter what happens, please just… get through it."

His dad stared at him for a few moments more, as if trying to understand him completely as fast as possible, before pulling him into another hug.

"I love you, Stiles," he managed to get out.

"I love you too."

Seconds later, the door was opened and they were forced to separate. There wasn't a word of actual goodbye. That wasn't needed. It didn't take long for someone to enter the room once John left. Scott rushed to pull him into a tight hug before pulling apart and gripping his arms.

"You can do this, Stiles," he said firmly through tears.

"Scott," he breathed out, not wanting to actually say what he was thinking.

"No, no," his best friend replied, "You're not a quitter. You're a stubborn ass, a fighter."

"I have no idea how to do _anything _remotely helpful," he stated, "I can't do that stuff."

"You can learn," Scott pleaded.

"I'll try, I will, but it's not gon-,"

"No, Stiles, listen," he interrupted, "You're the smart one. You just have to believe that you can do it. Please."

He soaked in these words, and then pushed them aside for later.

"Alright, Scotty," Stiles said softly, "Alright, but worst case scenario, you have to take care of my dad, okay?"

He nodded seriously.

"I promise."

Scott went in for one last bro-hug just as the Peacekeepers entered to escort him out. He gripped his shoulder for a second and sent him a meaningful gaze.

"You can do it, man," he called, tears pooling again as they pulled him outside, "You can win it."

Stiles nodded before losing sight of his best friend and turning around, thinking that would be it. As luck would have it, the door opened to reveal Allison and Mrs. McCall.

"They only allowed three groups," Allison said softly, "We though Scott should come alone."

He nodded again, not sure what to say, as Melissa suddenly embraced him. Stiles was surprised, but quickly hugged back.

"Oh, honey, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

"It's okay," he quietly replied, "It's okay, Ms. McCall."

"No, it's not," Allison said firmly as Melissa pulled away, "This can never be okay."

They were silent for a moment. Stiles looked at Allison slightly worriedly.

"You shouldn't really say stuff like that here," he said almost inaudibly.

"I don't care. This-," she scoffed, "this can't be happening."

"Well, it is." He turned to Melissa. "Don't let them blame themselves, Scott or my dad. I'm gonna be fine."

"Stiles-," Allison began.

"And you," he said with a slight smile, "Be careful… and try not to break my best friend's heart."

She embraced him quickly but tightly before turning to leave, wiping tears as she did so. Always the strong one, after all. Mrs. McCall didn't follow immediately, instead she squeezed his shoulder affectionately.

"I agree with Scott, you know," she said, "Don't be so quick to write yourself off. I expect you to come home."

He swallowed and nodded, allowing the smallest of smiles to form. She returned it and then was led out. Now there would definitely be no one else. True to this thought, the peacekeepers returned a moment later to lead him to the train. Stiles exchanged a glance with Erica as they were reunited, but there was no emotion in it. He barely knew the girl and, frankly, this wasn't the time to start forming a bond.

Completely ignoring the cameras surrounding them, he boarded the silver train and couldn't help but stare in awe at the contents. Erica brushed past him straight towards the trays of pastries and started eating one, and Stiles was reminded that there were families in his district in much worse positions than he was. At least his father still had their milking cows, that is if he still has the will to use them. _No, _don't think about that. Don't.

He sat down in a plushy chair by the table and absently picked up a muffin. Erica placed herself in the seat beside him, but stayed on the edge so as to reach the food more easily. Stiles picked at his baked good but couldn't truly stomach it, especially as Morell began talking to them about all the things that would happen next. He didn't _care_, and quite frankly didn't want to hear a word of it. Stiles did start paying attention when a new person entered the train car.

He had seen the man around town once in a while and knew who he was, everybody did actually. Derek Hale had won the Hunger Games several years earlier, when he was fifteen and Stiles was only seven. Three years later, his entire family was killed in a house fire. It was ruled an accident, but the people of District 10 knew what had really happened. For some unknown reason, the Capital had murdered them. Ever since that, Derek had lived a silent existence and only came into town every month or so to stock up. He walked in now with a glass of amber liquid and stood across from Stiles and Erica, even though there was a chair available beside Morell.

"What can you do?" he questioned, his expression free of emotion.

"What?" Erica asked.

"_What _can you _do _that I can _work with_?" he repeated in annoyance.

"That's it, you're gonna start with that?" Stiles said loudly, "No introduction? No 'sorry for getting picked'? I can tell how this is gonna go already."

Derek glared at him for a moment before taking a swig of his drink, placing the glass on the table, and folding his arms.

"I'm not interested in becoming your friend," he told them evenly, "I'm here to try to keep you alive."

Stiles didn't have a response for that, but he was luckily spared from having to come up with something as Erica spoke up.

"I can fight," she said, her voice a mixture of uncertainty and assurance.

He immediately shot her a surprised look and their mentor clearly felt the same.

"How?" Derek asked, "bow and arrows, a sword-,"

"Knives," she supplied, "I can throw knives."

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Stiles asked.

"I practiced at my family's butcher's shop," Erica answered, "I wanted to feel like I could do something."

It made sense, he realized, especially since she must've had a lot of free time with their shop being one of the least visited in the district.

"That's good, we can work on that," Derek replied without really changing his tone, "How about you?"

Stiles swallowed.

"Well, uh, I mean," he began, "when you're asking for things that I can _do_, do you mean-,"

"Ways to fight, survival skills," Derek interrupted heatedly, "can you do anything remotely helpful?"

He licked his lips anxiously as he wracked his brain for anything, _anything_, that he could say. But Stiles thought of nothing. He wished terribly that he had taken Allison up on that offer to teach him archery, but he was stupid enough to think he would never need it. This whole thing was unfathomable. Stiles wasn't aware that he had begun to shake before he abruptly stood up and left the train car. Morell called after him, and he actually glanced back, only to see Derek shaking his head minutely in disapproval.

He wasn't going to take this shit. Not right now.

Stiles opened the first door he came across and entered a medium-sized bedroom. He sat on the edge of the huge bed and plucked a remote from the side table. Not sure what to expect, he turned the large television on to see an overview of the districts reapings. His fingers twitched to change the channel, but something compelled him to keep watching. The McCalls' voices echoed in his ear. _You're the smart one. I expect you to come home. _He needed a plan, and it was going to start with checking out the competition.

He had missed the first couple districts, but he already knew what to expect from them. Careers, kids trained to kill since they were little, who volunteered to fight to the death. No matter what, he'd be watching them. As it was, Stiles picked up the show at the end of District 4, where the newsmen were discussing the volunteer male tribute, Ethan, whose twin brother had won the Games two years before and would be mentoring. He remembered that guy, Aiden, as a vicious body-builder and it was clear that Ethan wasn't too different.

District 5's tributes didn't seem especially dangerous, the girl in her mid-teens looking timid and the boy being one of the younger ones. They approached the stage as most non-Careers did, trembling but submissive, and so the newsmen quickly moved on from the boring Reaping. District 6's female tribute, however, immediately caught Stiles's eye. He'd remember that name for the rest of his life, h was sure of it.

Lydia Martin

At first he could just see a tumble of strawberry blonde waves, but as the camera zoomed in, he knew she must be around his age. Her bright green eyes were scared yet determined and though her body shook as she walked, no one needed to push her forward. There was something about her expression, the set of her mouth, that screamed resolute. There was no sharp denial like Stiles had experienced, she was going forward with the confidence of a guilty murderer to his execution. There was no changing what she was approaching, but damn it if she wasn't going to fight anyway.

So as Lydia took her place beside the District 6 escort, standing strong yet terrified nonetheless, Stiles knew right then and there who his best ally would be.

**A/N: THIS IS NO LONGER AN AU COLLECTION. I have moved the Diner AU into its own separate story as a oneshot which kept the name Golden. This one, obviously, I renamed. **

**The name of this story comes from The Killers's song Be Still, which is a favorite of mine and really great to listen to while thinking about this. Also, the chapter's title is from Mumford and Sons's Below My Feet, another favorite. Kay, so this is shaping up to be pretty long, mostly because I really don't want to leave out anything that I don't absolutely have to. I just love putting all the characters into places and having their relationships be ever so slightly different or just have them develop differently. Alrighty, thanks a bunch for reading, and remember to review. Even one word would be glorious. **


	2. The Rising Tide

The male tribute from District 6 was a skittish boy named Isaac Lahey. Whether he would be useful in an alliance was still to be determined, but from the sympathetic glance Lydia shot the curly-haired teen, Stiles figured he would be part of any deal they made. Though, the more he thought about it, he knew that Erica would be in any alliance he joined as well. The rest of the District Reapings didn't really catch his eye, except for the review of his own District 10. Stiles didn't even realize he was trembling until they started talking about the next Reaping.

They had showed nearly all of the footage, or at least it seemed that way. The worst part wasn't even watching himself shake uncontrollably as he walked to the stage, it was hearing Scott's desperate cries in the background and seeing his family in tears on the sidelines. The two newscasters even seemed interested in the situation.

"You don't see a lot of reactions that are this vocal," Jennifer Blake was saying, "So much raw emotion will surely push this tribute to win."

"He might look scrawny right now, but we've seen less buff tributes become victors," Bobby Finstock replied before laughing heartily, "And the way he corrects Morell before she even utters a word? This Stilinski kid's got something in him that might just work."

It was almost encouraging if he could ignore the way they spoke as if he wasn't a real person. Stiles cringed as he remembered that Finstock would be interviewing him in less than a week. Once the reviews were done, he turned the television off and fell back on the bed with a thump. The soft mattress and blankets were the most comfortable things he'd ever felt, but he'd never be able to appreciate them. Stiles turned his head slightly to watch as the countryside zipped by, a blur of browns and greens, before closing his eyes.

Sleep was virtually impossible, and when he did manage to doze off he dreamed of nothing good. Dead bodies lay at his feet and blood covered his hands all the way up to his elbows, all while laughing and cheering echoed in the distance. He kept waking up in shock, trembling and sweating, to the point where he just resigned himself to watching the window again. As soon as the hints of dawn emerged, Stiles returned to the main room he had been in before to find a new array of food, this time breakfast centered.

He helped himself to a plate of chocolate-chip pancakes with a generous helping of butter, his hunger finally back despite everything. Plus, he could never get this kind of luxury at home. Stiles stopped and stared at the cup of butter at that thought, knowing that the dairy product had been produced in his own district, yet only the mayor could possibly afford it.

"You're up early," a voice sounded from the doorway, causing Stiles to jump.

He turned to see Derek approaching the table, looking just as gloomy as the day before.

"_God_, you know, surprising me isn't really necessary," Stiles spat, staring his mentor down as he began filling his plate with English muffins, "You could walk in the room a bit more so that I actually know you're here before you scare me to death."

"You're just on edge," Derek stated, sitting down across from Stiles, "It's normal."

He let out a huff of annoyance before digging into his pancakes again, refusing to let Derek get to him even though the reply stung. They sat in silence for several minutes more, Stiles angrily stuffing each piece into his mouth while Derek ate in impossible calmness. Finally he slammed his fork onto the table.

"So what's the plan?" Stiles asked urgently, "What happens while we're here besides the stuff you see on TV? Are we going to train a lot, or sit around learning to be diplomatic, and what exactly do you do?"

"Both," Derek answered, biting into his English muffin, "but mostly you're going to train. Especially you. Train and learn how not to die in the first twenty-four hours."

He nodded slowly, though still a bit pissed at his mentor's composure.

"And you're going to be the one training me?" Stiles inquired.

"Mostly, but that doesn't start until tomorrow."

"What the hell are we doing today?" he demanded, "The Tribute Parade isn't until tonight."

Derek sighed heavily.

"They spend the whole day cleaning you up and fitting your costume," he answered, for once looking slightly empathetic.

Stiles let out a long breath, trying to calm himself down from the anger and anxiety that had instantly surged. The Capitol couldn't wait to see him, believe that they know him, and then watch him kill or be killed. And his family would be watching, they'd _all _be watching, his father and Scott and Melissa and Allison.

He was saved from having to continue thinking about this when Erica entered the room, immediately delving into the food. She sat beside Stiles, took a forkful of waffle, and looked up expectantly.

"So what are we talking about?" she asked nonchalantly.

"Well," he began before Derek interrupted.

"We're going to start talking about how to survive," he said, startling Stiles.

"So we can do that now, then?" he interrogated, "I thought you said training wasn't until tomorrow."

"This is just talking," Derek stated matter-of-factly before turning to Erica and beginning to speak about how to find freshwater.

Stiles narrowed his eyes suspiciously, sure that his mentor was simply waiting for his fellow tribute to arrive. He would've argued more, but he knew he would need the survival tips Derek had begun doling out. He and Erica asked questions once in a while, but it was mostly the young adult who did the talking throughout the morning. Morell joined them eventually, giving a brief overview of the day's schedule, which Stiles promptly ignored. He'd find out soon enough, after all.

It wasn't long before the Capitol itself came into view. Despite himself, Stiles rose out of his chair to look out the window more closely, Erica on his heels. The city was nothing he had ever seen before, not in person anyway. He'd seen glimpses on TV and pictures in textbooks, but everything seemed grander this way. Erica wore an absolutely awed expression, and he was sure that he did too.

It was only after the train began to slow down and they started passing actual Capitol citizens that Stiles felt sick again. The people were just so _excited _about their arrival and he couldn't wrap his head around why. He knew they saw the Games as a fun and necessary annual event, he knew they had been raised that way, and yet he still couldn't comprehend it. Erica was smiling widely at the adorers, nodding her head a bit as if in greeting. To him, it was clearly fake, but he expected the Capitol people to believe it since they saw it every year. Stiles also knew that he should be ingratiating himself with them as well, that it would help get him sponsors.

Slowly but surely, he managed to plaster on a laughing grin, even waving a little here and there. The crowd loved it, but each wildly bedazzled person he saw cheering seemed to take a knife into his chest. He was endlessly relieved once the train finally stopped inside a building, the plain silver outside the windows giving away this fact. Morell hastily ushered him and Erica towards the exit. When he glanced back, he saw Derek somberly watching them go, and the mentor raised his glass to him before Stiles was torn away.

The tributes were swiftly separated, and he was whisked into a room of what he would soon discover to be called the Remake Center. Stiles quickly discovered why Derek had sounded so sympathetic when talking about this day. Being told to strip naked in front of complete not to mention crazy-looking strangers was quite the shock, though he wasn't sure why this was so surprising. It's the Capitol and he is a tribute in the Hunger Games, after all.

It only got more mortifying and uncomfortable. His prep team, which was composed of three detached young adults, scrubbed his body with the grittiest soap imaginable in order to get off all the dirt and several layers of skin, or so it seemed to Stiles. This was followed by a full body wax, as if it was completely abnormal to have hair anywhere but the top of your head and eyebrows. Every time he voiced his complaints, cynical as ever, he was rapidly cut off by part of the prep team. They simply told him to 'hush,' which only angered him more.

Finally, after hours of this torture, their work was done and they called his stylist inside. The man looked about in his thirties, tall with brunette hair that was slightly slicked back and cold blue eyes. He looked altogether non-Capitol in his plain brown v-neck shirt, chocolate colored leather jacket, and dark jeans. His expression already looked displeased, and there was something about it that almost seemed familiar.

"Peter Hale," he introduced, "We'll be getting to know each other a lot this week, or rather I'll be getting to know a lot more than I'd like about you."

Stiles narrowed his eyes.

"This isn't exactly what I'd call a preferable situation for me either," he countered just before he processed the last name, "Wait a second, are you related to Derek?"

Peter smirked and dismissed the prep team before turning to him with a disgusted expression.

"Cover up, will you? I don't need to see this," he stated distastefully as he gestured to the thin robe hanging on the wall.

Stiles didn't need to hear it twice. He instantly grabbed the cloth and put it on, still not satisfied even with it.

"To answer your question," Peter began, "yes, I am Derek's uncle but I'm not going to waste my time explaining this to you. I'm here to make you and the other tribute look good enough that people will want to pay for your possible survival. This task itself is quite improbable, but I might as well try."

He gritted his teeth. This was the kind of thing he expected to hear as a subtle undertone that the Capitol citizens didn't even know they were releasing, not so blatant and straightforward. He opened his mouth to return an insult, but the stylist held up a hand to stop him.

"We're eating lunch," Peter stated, before turning back into the room he had come from.

Stiles followed cautiously, unsure about everything concerning this guy, but sat down on one of the couches nonetheless. The stylist sat across from him and pushed a button on the table, immediately bringing forth a chicken entrée with various lavish sides. Peter began eating without a word, and so he followed suit despite his misgivings.

"So," the older man finally spoke casually, "about your costume for the Tribute Parade, Boyd and I discussed it before the Reapings but now we are positive about the plan. It's ready for the fitting as soon as you finish eating."

"Okay," Stiles drew out the word skeptically, "Care to tell me what the costume is or who this Boyd person is? And please tell me it's not cowboys or something equally overdone and ridiculous."

"Boyd is the girl's stylist-,"

"Erica," he interrupted in irritation.

"Right, Erica," Peter waved the subject off, "Your costumes will be representing the products District 10 make. That means dairy for Erica and meat for you."

"What?" Stiles said, scrunching his face up in confusion.

"You'll see," he smirked again.

He ate the rest of the meal in complete and utter frustration, which didn't begin to ebb until he returned to the previous room. His costume had been hung on the wall in his absence, and his jaw all but dropped at the sight of it. It was a dark gray and brown leotard with flecks of red, the colors mixing together seamlessly with no true boundaries between them.

"This is hideous," Stiles exclaimed.

"It's not supposed to be beautiful," Peter deadpanned, "It's supposed to make people notice and remember."

"But didn't you say earlier that your job was to make me look good?" he argued.

"Good as in _interesting_," the stylist replied crossly, "and this will definitely get the job done. Now put it on so we can make adjustments."

Stiles grumbled but ultimately did as he was told. The fabric was light and cool, but thick enough that he felt like he had real clothing on and not a _leotard_. Peter inspected him closely before calling in the prep team again. He pointed out flaw after flaw, and the three young adults stitched up any area that was loose. By the end, it was as tight as humanly possible and Stiles hated it even more.

"Time for stage two," Peter stated, snapping his fingers.

"What?" he complained, "Is this gonna make it better or worse?"

The stylist only smirked, which Stiles was beginning to loathe most of all. The prep team pulled out several silver containers and opened them with a _pop_. As soon as one of them dipped what looked like a large paint brush into the substance, he took a step back.

"What the _hell _is that?" he cried, "Is tha- is that blood?"

"Calm down, it's not real blood," Peter said, annoyed as usual, "It's a special solution made just for this purpose and it will be what makes you memorable."

"Well, where's it going?" Stiles questioned uncertainly.

"Where isn't it going?" he sneered, "Now stay still and let the nice people do their job."

"You're going to cover me in blood," he stated, trying to keep his speech from shaking and failing miserably.

It was as if any confidence or dignity he had managed to retain had disappeared with this realization. And yet, there was nothing he could do to prevent this.

"Fake blood," Peter repeated, his voice unexpectedly softer.

Stiles locked gazes with the older man for a moment and found, for the first time, a sense of empathy in them. Almost… as if he cared? But this was instantly forgotten when the prep team began painting his skin with the substance. It was oily and lukewarm, absolutely revolting to the touch, and Stiles clenched his fists in an attempt to stay calm.

It took over an hour for Peter to be satisfied with the amount of the solution on him. He and the prep team left him alone in the room until it was time to leave for the chariots. Supposedly, it wouldn't be long now. Stiles couldn't stop staring at himself in the long mirror. The blood _–substance _covered every inch of his body. His hair was drenched in it, his usually pale skin colored coppery red. It was too real, way too real, and he hated the Capitol impossibly more for being able to create it. Peter had told him that the solution wouldn't dry or drip off, and could only be removed with a thorough washing.

Before he knew it, Stiles was trembling and he let out a choking breath, desperately blinking back tears. He couldn't do this, _he couldn't do this_, but he was being forced to. His mind was screaming the fear at him, repeating it again and again, how in a week's time this could be real. It could be real blood, either his own just after his family involuntarily watched him be brutally murdered or someone else's after he lost himself to desperation or savagery. The most terrifying part was Stiles didn't even know which scenario was worse.

He jumped when the door opened to reveal Derek, who stopped in his tracks at the sight of him. Whether this was at his costume or the obvious tears in his eyes, he couldn't tell.

"We're ready to go," he finally uttered quietly.

Stiles nodded, took a deep breath, and left the room.

**A/N: The title for this chapter came from The Killers's song The Rising Tide, which is a great listen and relevant to this. Sorry for the wait, I have a habit of rather slow updating, but I am ridiculously excited about my plans for this particular AU. Any and all feedback is welcome, even a one word review would give me great joy.** **Anyway, thanks for reading, for your patience... and for reviews? **


	3. A Ripped-Up Ticket Stub

Stiles didn't have the energy to be surprised by the costume Erica was wearing. Maybe a bit envious, but not surprised. It was a stark white dress whose skirt and shoulders puffed out, but her powdered skin was the most striking. It was just as white as her dress, causing her brown eyes to be exemplified tenfold. Even her hair was doused with the color.

They stood by their chariot as the other tributes made their entrance, all dressed in equally if not stranger costumes. Derek was by the horses, absentmindedly stroking one's neck, as Peter and Boyd made last-minute adjustments. Stiles exchanged an exasperated glance with Erica. It felt a bit better sharing the pain.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted District 6 enter the area. Lydia and Isaac were wearing sleek silver outfits, he assumed in reference to the trains' outer shells, and her hair was in an elegant high ponytail while his was slicked flat. Now that Stiles could see them off the television screen, he could tell that Isaac was actually a few years younger than he had previously thought, and that Lydia was more beautiful than ever.

Wait. No. _Focus_, Stiles.

She was talking sternly with the young man beside her. He was most definitely Capital, with an air of superiority that rivaled even that of the president himself, or so it seemed. He escorted Lydia to their chariot, a dark-skinned woman with Isaac closely behind. They looked just about as unhappy as Erica and he were. In fact, most of the tributes appeared that way, which he supposed was expected. The only ones marginally happy or, yes, excited, were the Careers. Again, totally expected.

As the stragglers rushed into the area, Derek glanced at the large clock set on the wall and ordered them onto the chariot. Erica went first, managing the steps surprisingly well in her heels, before Stiles almost slipped. He righted himself and looked back down at his mentor, who had summoned their attention with a flick of his index finger.

"Last minute advice," he began.

"We've been standing here ten minutes and now you wanna talk?" Stiles blurted out.

He was silenced with a glare.

"Don't be the idiots who think they're above catering to the crowd," Derek stated, "I don't care how much you hate them, they've got to love you."

"That shouldn't be too hard," Erica said casually, "For me, at least."

Stiles shot her a scowl.

"Yeah, don't get cocky," Derek said dryly before pausing, "And good luck."

They exchanged nods before the mentor lifted his arms from the chariot's edge and walked to the sidelines by the large flat-screens. They lurched forward mere moments later, causing him to grab onto the edge hastily as Erica just smirked. Stiles quickly let go, forcing himself to stand straight and tall, suddenly all too aware that he'd soon be on television again. He remembered his earlier horror as he glanced at his red coated skin warily. It almost made him panic once more, until he caught a glimpse of strawberry blonde four chariots ahead.

He could barely make her out, but it was as though the mere thought of her green eyes and steady gaze calmed him. It was a ridiculous thought, he'd never spoken a word with the girl, but it was true nonetheless. Even as they crossed the threshold into the stadium, Stiles felt… okay? Still, his heart was pounding unimaginably loudly as the audience, which had been clapping somewhat for District 9, stopped altogether at the sight of him and Erica.

They exchanged terrified glances before the onlookers' shock seemed to disappear, and there came a thunderous roar of cheering. Without a thought, Stiles laughed aloud and bumped Erica's arm in excitement. Later he would look back in almost disgust that he was so ecstatic at having earned the Capitol people's approval, but at that moment he was only thinking of how this could save their lives. He lifted his right arm into the air, a nearly genuine grin on his face, only faltering when he first spotted the bright colored faces up close.

Erica caught a flower, which she held to her nose gratefully, and was quickly thrown several more. She handed two to Stiles and he followed suit, but was instantly taken aback by the sickly sweet scent. It was entirely different than any flower he had smelled at home. It seemed with each passing second, he was becoming less and less excited.

But he kept smiling, and raising his arm victoriously, and catching the Capitol-engineered roses, because that's what he had to do. Eventually, all twelve chariots stopped in a semi-circle around the large raised platform where President Gerard and the other high-up government officials sat. There were a few congratulatory remarks, during which Stiles struggled to keep his smile, before the chariots moved into the area beneath the Training Center building.

As soon as they stopped moving, Stiles tossed his flowers onto the ground and hopped off the chariot, purposely landing on the roses. It felt a tiny bit childish, yet he couldn't deny the feeling of triumph as well. Erica was right behind him and it only took them a few seconds to realize that Derek, Peter, and the others had not yet finished traveling to the next building. Stiles instantly saw a chance to get his plan working.

He glanced around the area before finding the District 6 tributes standing by their chariot. After telling Erica that he'd be back soon, earning a suspicious raise of an eyebrow, he made his way over to the duo.

"I don't think that went too well," Isaac was saying, his arms crossed as he leaned against the chariot.

"It's probably the hair," Lydia replied, hastily carding her fingers through his curls until they were free from the gel.

She abruptly stopped the motion upon noticing his arrival and stared him down not too kindly.

"Hi, uh, I'm Stiles," he began, awkward as ever, "from District 10. I, well, I have proposal for you, I guess. I realize this is a bit quick, but I was thinking that we form an alliance."

There was a pause during which Lydia and Isaac exchanged a glance.

"You haven't even seen either of our skills, and more importantly we haven't seen yours," Lydia stated.

"I know, I know," he countered, "I'm not looking for a definite answer right now, but I just want you to think about it. And then, you know, we can discuss it… or something."

"What do you think, Lyd?" Isaac asked, a hint of mock in his tone, "Can we trust this guy?"

"Well, I guess it can't hurt to just think about it," she sighed, "and this is both of us, of course. Any alliance I'm in, Isaac is too."

"Right, yeah, of course," Stiles agreed, "And Erica."

She nodded, scanning him up and down doubtfully, just as the Capitol people he had seen with her and Isaac earlier approached them.

"What are you doing here, 10?" the man demanded.

"Calm down, Jackson, Stiles here is just being friendly," Lydia interrupted breezily.

"Well, Peter's stunt with the fake blood sure did make him a person to watch," the dark-skinned woman stated heatedly.

Stiles was about to reply crossly when a hand roughly grabbed his upper arm and he turned to find Derek beside him.

"I'm sorry you couldn't come up with a better idea than the usual silver theme, Braeden," the mentor spat, "but that's really not a good reason to already hate this kid. There are plenty of others."

"Hey!" Stiles yelled, yanking his arm from Derek's grip, "I can handle myself fine, thank you. In fact, I considered that a compliment."

"Doing a grand job as mentor yet again, I see," Jackson admonished with a smirk.

"Oh, please," Lydia snapped, "like _you're _perfect at it."

The Capitol man opened his mouth to retort just as two new people joined the group.

"Already getting into trouble, Stiles?" Morrell inquired, "I hoped it would've taken a bit longer."

"C'mon, sis, you're not going to help this situation like that," the man beside her scolded good-naturedly.

"Actually we were just leaving, Deaton," Derek stated irritably before grabbing Stiles's arm again and dragging him to the elevator.

The mentor ignored his attempts at conversation until they were on their way up, one hand holding the bridge of his nose in frustration.

"What the hell were you thinking?" he questioned angrily.

Stiles let out a huff of annoyance. He was entirely aware that the encounter had ended in disaster, and maybe it was edging towards that from the beginning anyway, but he had succeeded in planting the idea in the two tributes' minds. At this point, he'll take that as a win.

"I was just being diplomatic," he claimed.

"Diplomatic?" Derek repeated in disbelief.

"Yeah, you know, creating good relations with my possible enemies or… possible allies."

"Is that what you were doing?" he reprimanded, voice rising, "Trying to form an alliance with people you know next to nothing about?"

"I'm not going to get everybody's life story in a week, what's the difference?"

"You'll see them all _training_, Stiles. You can make a good estimate about how long they're going to survive. You don't decide to ally yourself with a district just because you think the girl is pretty."

"I'm not that shallow, Derek," he disputed, "There's more to it than that."

The elevator dinged and opened, revealing the tenth floor apartment where he'd be living, but they were both still staring each other down furiously. Their fists shook with restrained rage. From the corner of his eye, Stiles saw Peter walked up to the door and fold his arms.

"Other people want to use the elevator, you know," he said dryly.

Derek gave a huff of exasperation before briskly heading down the hallway and into a room, slamming the door behind him. Stiles walked out and glanced around, not truly taking in the scenery. His mind was still too angry for that. Distantly, he heard the elevator ding again as its doors closed.

"Gave you quite the lecture, huh?" Peter asked.

"Where's Erica?" he inquired, noticing her absence but also not interested in discussing his numerous frustrations with the stylist.

"In her bedroom, and I expect Morrell to join us any minute, though you did hold everybody up with that little quarrel," Peter answered, "So is he more upset about you having a plan that you didn't talk over with him first, or the fact that it involves a pretty girl?"

"Look, I don't know and I don't care, okay?" Stiles replied heatedly, "None of you are going to talk to me like a normal person or even just listen to me when I speak. I'm not an idiot. I know what I'm doing, and it's not revolving around a _crush _that I _do not have_."

He started walking towards the hallway but stopped with Peter's response.

"There's a reason he's called a mentor, you know."

"Yeah, I know," he replied, not sure about where this was going.

"He speaks from experience."

Stiles narrowed his eyes in confusion for a moment, and then widened them in sudden realization. His voice was just slightly softer than it had been for a while now as he questioned what the stylist meant. Peter only shook his head.

**A/N: Wow, okay, so sorry that it's been such a long time since my last update and this isn't even a particularly long chapter. It's harder to write for a show on hiatus because I'm not hit with such a constant onslaught of feelings, but have no fear! This is still going on. I must profusely thank Mimi21389 for your reviews/messages. Not sure if their encounter is truly considered a Stydia scene, but it was their first real meeting so I hope you're happy with it! I love to hear your feedback, and I much also send my love to Teenwolf24 for your review. I always jump for joy at any kind of comment. SO we're getting to the plot, I promise. This chapter's title is from Snow Patrols's song Disaster Button. This one was much harder to find a song for but, you know, I think what I ended up with is pretty relevant. As always, thank you for reading and all that jazz. A review would be just delightful, thanks, but no pressure.**


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